


A Full-Blown Case of What is Known

by crushcandles



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curses, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: Jaskier runs afoul of the sorceress he spent the winter with and it has consequences for his relationship with Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 323





	A Full-Blown Case of What is Known

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a great prompt from [sophieasaurus-hipster](https://sophieasaurus-hipster.tumblr.com/) on tumblr about a curse leading to feelings. Thanks to [candybarrnerd](https://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/)/[icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight) for the capable, caring beta. Title from [Jellybones](https://youtu.be/sZs3TYxZctY) by The Unicorns.

The whole thing, as often is the case with Jaskier, starts with a slap. 

Geralt rounds the corner to the sound of shouting and he’s immediately suspicious of the source. He’s come to town after six months of winter to meet Jaskier, and it seems fated that one of the voices he hears is Jaskier’s. He’s yelling in the tone he uses when he’s been accused of some wrong-doing that he’s fully guilty of, stammering and playing at shocked. So it’s no surprise for Geralt to come to the town’s square and see Jaskier in its centre. 

The other source of the commotion is a woman, tall and well-dressed. Even from far away, Geralt can sense the magic surrounding her, buzzing around her like a swarm of angry bees.

"If you want to leave Ban Ard so badly, then leave!" she shouts, so furious her voice breaks. "I'd like to see you walk away from me!"

Her hand rises almost faster than Geralt can see, the rings on her fingers sparkling in the sun. Jaskier is lucky the rings are flat because she belts him across the face so hard that the sound of their skin connecting stings. The witch's magic snaps against Jaskier's cheek, the force of the slap hard enough to break the protective seal around her for a moment.

Jaskier staggers back, off-balance from the sheer force of it. He scans the crowd, eyes wide with confusion and pain. He catches Geralt's eyes just as his knees cut out from under him and he lands arse-down in the spring mud. 

The witch has to shake out her hand after that slap, but she's smiling while she does it.

"There," she announces, tugging her sleeve down to her red knuckles. "That's where you belong." She leaves the square with her head held high, sweeping through the speechless crowd. Geralt feels fortunate thatshe heads in the opposite direction of him. He'd like to avoid scrutiny from a woman like that. Especially given the fact that the reason Jaskier's leaving is to spend the summer travelling with Geralt. 

Everything is still until the woman disappears into the doorway under a sign reading _Cures, Contagions, Curiosities_. Then the crowd bursts into motion, people moving around Jaskier like a river around a rock, speaking both ill and well of him. A few sorry souls stop to help get him out of the mud while Geralt finds his way over. 

Two men have Jaskier by the elbows and are pulling him to his feet when Geralt approaches. Jaskier is mud-spattered and his cheek is a vibrant red, but he's chuckling sheepishly with the men so he mustn't be too hurt.

"You're always making friends," Geralt says. The three of them turn at the sound of Geralt's voice. The men on either side of Geralt are both young, and they must not have much experience with witchers because they're clearly shocked at the sight of him. Jaskier looks surprised to see Geralt too, but it transforms into a broad smile that drops when he tries to get up the rest of the way and finds the men's grip on him have gone slack, letting him back down into his knees in the mud. 

"Sir bard!" one of the men yelps, kneeling down to help Jaskier again. The other man looks from Jaskier to Geralt and back again. 

Geralt holds up a quelling hand. "I know. I can hardly believe it myself that we know each other."

"You're-" the man exclaims, and then looks around wildly. He lowers his voice. "You're the witcher he sung all those songs about."

Leaning heavily on the man helping him, dragging himself out of the dirt, Jaskier remarks, "I really only know the one witcher."

Taking Jaskier’s other arm to lift him, ignoring how much dirt immediately gets on his cloak, Geralt says, “I doubt I could stop you from coming to Kaer Morhen for the winter to meet the others.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, leaning his muddy weight on Geralt now instead of the man, “but you haven’t asked me, now have you?” He stretches to address the two men. “My thanks for the help. Hopefully Anniella didn’t see you or you’ll never get another hangover cure from her again.”

All of them, even Geralt, who wouldn’t know this Anniella from the doorway she went into, reflexively look over in the direction she went. The door stays shut tight, no magic swarms over them, and no more shouting sounds. Still, the men slink off, looking over their shoulders as they go.

When they’re as alone as they can get in a crowded town square, Jaskier turns to Geralt, turning on the charming smile he probably tried to use to get out of trouble with this witch, and the one that likely got him into trouble with her in the first place. 

“Hello, Geralt,” he says. His arm is around Geralt’s shoulder now and he’s still giving Geralt all of his weight. “Happy spring.”

“Good to see you,” Geralt says, smiling in spite of how muddy he is now too. “You’ve been busy, I take it.”

*

Geralt drags Jaskier to the tavern and dumps him in the furthest booth, ignoring the dirty looks from the barmaid at the dust and mud they bring in with them. 

“Terribly sorry, my dear,” Jaskier says when she brings them ale, batting his eyelashes at her. She frowns at him until he sighs and offers her a coin and a pout. 

“Try not to get it everywhere,” she says, dropping the coin into her apron. “Same to your friend.”

“Try not to get it everywhere,” Jaskier repeats dutifully to Geralt as she leaves them to themselves. He grins into his ale. 

Geralt takes a drink, thirsty from travel and the welcome sight of Jaskier after a long dark winter. 

“You’re in good humour for a man who almost got the mouth knocked off his face a few minutes ago.”

Jaskier winces at the memory and touches his cheek with a dirty hand, patting gently at the place the sorceress slapped. The red mark has faded, but he leaves a smear of mud in its place. 

“Not my proudest moment,“ Jaskier admits. “I thought it was a seasonal fling, but it turns out she very much does not, or did not, wish for me to leave.”

Geralt shifts in his seat, the grit under his arse scraping over the wooden bench. They had agreed for Geralt to come here as soon as the pass from Kaer Morhen was clear, so they could travel together for the summer.

But, “You can stay here,” Geralt offers, before he drinks deeply from his ale. He’s spent one season alone. Another few will not kill him. 

Across from him, Jaskier sighs, slumping down in his seat, so far so that one of his feet ends up between Geralt’s ankles. He toys with the handle on his mug. 

“I made a promise to you that I intend to honour. And after that slap, I doubt very much I’m welcome here any longer.” He touches his cheek again, contemplative for a moment before he says slyly, “Which is a shame, considering how skilled she is with her hands when she’s not using them on my tender face.”

He winks at Geralt and lifts his drink, going pink in the cheeks, but not from someone’s hands on them.

*

Later, once Jaskier’s packed up most of his things in the room he rented for the winter, and they’ve bathed, they find themselves in bed, window cracked and the covers kicked down in celebration of spring, Jaskier on his back, knees up, Geralt on his side. 

“Are my hands fine enough for you?” Geralt asks, sucking on Jaskier’s pulse. “I know you have discerning tastes.”

Jaskier says nothing, just draws in a heavy, harsh breath. Geralt presses his three fingers deeper inside of Jaskier and his thumb against Jaskier’s rim. Jaskier’s hole clenches around him, going bruise-tight for a moment. Geralt pulls back to watch Jaskier’s cock leak pre-come, adding to the mess of come he’s already left there. 

“Y-yes,” Jaskier moans, digging one of his heels into the sheets. He swallows before finding his tongue to say, “Your hands are, oh, very fine.” One of his spread knees tips wider to rest against Geralt’s hip. “I’ve missed them.”

Geralt takes advantage of the extra space between Jaskier’s thighs to start fucking Jaskier again with his fingers. He rotates his wrist, rubs his thumb against Jaskier’s flexing perineum. The second orgasm usually takes some work to get to, but he has faith and Jaskier seems willing, circling his hips, his hard cock sliding on his stomach. 

He works at it until Jaskier’s come-streaked belly is heaving and Jaskier is tugging at his shoulders frantically. 

“Fuck me,” he whimpers. “I want to come on your cock this time.”

Just him saying the words is enough to have Geralt’s cock aching. He’s been so consumed with Jaskier’s pleasure that he’s hardly given any thought to his own. It’s been too long since the last time he fucked Jaskier, back in the fall, the two of them rushing to get their pleasure on a thin scratchy blanket in the woods outside of Ban Ard.

Jaskier groans when Geralt pulls his fingers out, but the sound melts into a sigh when Geralt gets his cock inside instead. His hole is tight around Geralt’s cock but the rest of him goes loose, his thighs spread wide for Geralt’s hips and his arms draped lazily around Geralt’s shoulders. 

After a long winter, there’s no need to hurry, but they do, eager for each other. Jaskier talks to get what he wants, and Geralt, having lived with near-silence for months, gives it to him. They fuck hard, how Jaskier begs for it and Geralt wants it, both of them gasping in the spring air. Jaskier comes first, gripping Geralt tightly while he does and then going boneless, helping Geralt reach his own orgasm with a few choice words. 

After, Jaskier stretches on the rumpled sheets, rubbing his own chest with satisfaction. 

“Will you pour me some water?” he asks, fingers skating over Geralt’s thigh. “That was so good I don’t think I can walk.” He rubs his cheek on the pillow in the way he thinks makes him look endearing. 

Geralt climbs over Jaskier to get to the pitcher of water on the table. He fills the clay cup to the brim and lifts it to his mouth first before bringing it to Jaskier.

“You don’t have to sweet-talk,” he says, holding the cup out of Jaskier’s reach. 

“I like sweet-talking,” Jaskier insists, getting up on an elbow. When Geralt teases him again with the cup, he skims his fingers up Geralt’s sweaty belly. 

Shivering, Geralt gives him the cup. Jaskier smirks up at him while he drinks his fill, which is its own kind of sweet-talk.

*

They make it almost to the edge of town before Jaskier's guilt overtakes him. He stops walking just before they pass underneath the town's arch and puts a hand on Geralt's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "I have to go back. It'll be fast, I promise."

Together they go back to the market, past where the witch slapped Jaskier, to the side street with the sign for her shop. It's still hanging there, but the window has been boarded up and the door doesn't open when Jaskier tries it. 

He steps back beside Geralt, puzzled.

"I'm sorry," he says, "but it was just yesterday she yelled at me, right? And then disappeared into her shop? I haven't mistaken the passage of time?"

"It was yesterday," Geralt confirms. There are some vestiges of magic clinging to the doorframe, but it's obvious to him that the witch has taken her leave of this place. 

A passerby sees them staring at the shop and stops nearby. 

"The lady Anniella has a sister that lives in Rinde," she calls. The way she says _sister_ makes it hard to tell if this a blood or magical relation. "Most summers she goes there to visit." She eyes Jaskier when she says, "But usually she doesn't leave so abruptly."

Jaskier looks down at his boots. 

"I came to tell her I was sorry," he says. "For how it worked out. The fault was mine, not hers."

The woman adjusts the basket tucked into her elbow. "Well, she's in Rinde so she can't hear you from there. You could come back in autumn times, I suppose. She might hear you then." She smiles a little, remembering something. "Or she might turn you into a rat."

Jaskier makes a face, both at the prospect of being turned into a rat and for having missed Anniella so completely. 

"Alright," he mutters. "Thank you."

The woman walks a wide path around them as she leaves, avoiding them as if they’re cursed. Jaskier scratches the back of his neck.

"Well," he says, sorry and sheepish. "That's unfortunate. I was hoping to make amends before we left town. Never did I think she’d beat me out the gate."

With no other recourse left to them, they start walking back the way they came. 

"If we're close to Rinde this summer," Geralt offers, "We can find her. A woman like that can't be hard to track down."

Jaskier's face lifts. "Really?"

"Yes," Geralt says. "You wish to apologize, and I would very much like to see you transformed into a rat."

Geralt laughs, clapping Jaskier on the shoulder so hard he stumbles.

*

The traces of winter still linger in the frost of the morning and the chill of the night. The monsters linger too, those that made their homes in all the places people didn’t dare to tread during those months. It means a good year for Geralt is to come. 

Instead of heading west straight to Rinde right away, they go south toward Rivia in search of larger contracts and audiences after such a long, quiet winter. Geralt doesn't have much to say about his time in Kaer Morhen; it was cold and restful, as any other year, but Jaskier has many tales to tell of the people living in Ban Ard: The brothers who run the butchers, the staff at the tavern and the inn - ever indulgent of the bard from the south, the pupils of the academy who are learning magic. They'd all like Geralt, Jaskier swears.

Some of his stories have odd gaps in them, holes the size and shape of a person. He says _we_ sometimes, then corrects himself: _I_. There’s always a vaguely shamed look on his face when he does it. 

"I said you could stay there," Geralt tells Jaskier after he interrupts himself in the middle of an innocuous story about a chicken appearing on a rooftop to say _I saw_ instead of _we saw_. "Or go to Rinde."

"No," Jaskier replies. He folds his hands between his knees. "That's not it. It was just for a season. I feel badly for hurting her though. And isn't it not fair to you?"

Geralt stretches his legs out closer to the fire. "What do you mean?"

"Me, in Ban Ard, with," he pauses for a breath, "Anniella. You, at Kaer Morhen, alone."

"I'm not alone at Kaer Morhen. I have Eskel and Lambert. Vesemir too."

Jaskier gives him a stern look. "That's not what I mean."

"I want for very little at Kaer Morhen," Geralt says. "And it's only a season. Hardly any reprieve from you at all."

Jaskier laughs, stretching out his legs alongside Geralt's. "I should have pretended not to know you when you came to town."

"I seem to recall someone saying you spent all winter singing songs about me."

Even in the glow from the fire, Geralt can see the colour rise on Jaskier's face. He rubs his sweaty palm off on his knee. 

"For better or for worse," he says, "songs about you make up a sizeable portion of my catalogue. And for better or for worse, they pay well."

"And yet," Geralt says, "I never see any coin from any song sung about me."

He taps his boot on Jaskier's. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"I thought you wanted for nothing," he says. 

"At Kaer Morhen, in the winter," Geralt corrects. "Here, in spring, I want a lot of things."

Just like a spring wind, the air changes. Jaskier raises his eyebrows and drops his eyes to Geralt’s crotch. He wets his mouth. “Is that so?”

“You heard me,” Geralt says, reaching over to grip Jaskier’s wrist so he can tumble him onto the ground.

*

Geralt gets his first contract before they make it as far south as Rivia. It comes when they're in Vengerberg. Jaskier's in the centre of the courtyard belonging to some lesser nobility, singing a song that appears to be about flowers blooming on first listen, but that conceals a tawdrier centre. As Geralt watches the performance one of the guards sidles up, leaning on the wall beside him, taking advantage of both the shadows and the distraction.

"You a witcher?" he asks, studiously avoiding looking at Geralt in the way Geralt’s learned to mean the man was raised on the more gruesome tales of what a witcher will do if you catch his eye. 

Geralt looks straight forward too."Yes." 

The guard nods to Jaskier, who’s crooning to a delighted, scandalized woman about the length of a bee's tongue. "I saw you come in with him. He payin' you?"

Jaskier's smiling at the woman, but his eyes are sly as he sings. He winks at the crowd, and Geralt can practically smell the collective longing from here. 

"Not at the moment," Geralt tells the guard. 

"You heard about the trouble in the north?"

Geralt looks at the guard, who only glances at him before his eyes snap away again. "What's happening in the north?"

"Northwest," the guard clarifies. "Tretogor. There's some beastie terrorizing the city. Snatching people right off the streets."

Jaskier finishes his song about flowers and fucking by kissing the woman’s knuckles with all the delicacy of a noble. The woman looks near to fainting from the attention. Jaskier looks up from her powdered hand and big rings to catch Geralt's eye. He winks. 

"No," Geralt says. He doesn't return the gesture, distracted already by imagining what kind of monster this could be. "I hadn't heard."

The guard shifts around, standing taller now that the nobles' attention isn't solely on Jaskier. "Word is there's a handsome prize for anyone who does the bastard in and no one's managed it yet. Could be good work for you."

"Why tell me?" Geralt asks. "You don't want the gold for yourself?"

Shaking his head, the guard says, "I've got a life here...but my sister lives in Tretogor. She's all that’s left of my family. Without her I’m alone."

"Ah."

The guard finally gets brave enough to look at Geralt properly. He blinks, a little surprised at what he sees perhaps, or at his bravery, or that he’s still standing there unharmed after doing so. “So I just thought...you might like to know.” He shrugs nervously, pushing off the wall, pretending to fix his belt before he leaves, without a backwards look, as if he never spoke to Geralt at all. 

Geralt turns the information he has over in his mind until Jaskier ambles up to him, wine goblet in hand. He leans on the wall next to Geralt, brushing their shoulders together. 

“Having fun?” he asks, sipping his wine, looking in the direction Geralt is. There’s a man in fine clothery feeding cake to an equally well dressed woman, but Geralt doesn’t really care about them.

“You played well,” Geralt says, thinking of how many days it will take them to get to Tretogor from here, what’s the safest route. “We should go soon though.” He reaches for Jaskier’s goblet. 

Jaskier gives it up without a fight. “Why?”

Geralt takes a sip. All this power and money, and these people still drink the same swill the taverns serve. It’s free though, so he licks it off his lips, ignoring how Jaskier’s eyes follow his tongue.

“One of the guards told me there’s a monster hunting people in Tretogor.”

Jaskier digs himself out of his slouch against the wall. “Very well then. Finish my wine while I get my coin, and we can go.”

He leaves Geralt as he came, at a leisurely pace, pausing to accept thanks for his performance, his smile dazzling in the sun. Geralt finishes Jaskier’s wine in a few sharp swallows.

*

Out on the Path, they share blankets at night, even when the nights grow warmer. Aside from a few drunken collapses next to Eskel, Geralt hasn't shared a bed with anyone since he left Jaskier at Ban Ard's gates the previous fall. It's good. Jaskier's warm and a heavy sleeper, a welcome contrast to Geralt's cold skin and drifting sleep. 

It’s not as good when Geralt wakes up with his throat damp from Jaskier’s breath and his face moist from the fog sweeping into their camp. It dulls the sound of pattering claws and gnashing teeth, but Geralt nevertheless recognizes the sounds of foglets. His sword is on Jaskier’s other side, between them and the fire. 

Sharp footsteps spring their way, a foglet leaping at them, snarling. Geralt rolls towards his sword, bringing Jaskier underneath the shelter of his body at the same time. Jaskier gasps awake as the foglet lands on Geralt’s back, its claws catching Geralt’s shirt instead of Jaskier’s face. 

One of the claws slices through to his skin. He curses into Jaskier’s sleepy, shocked face as he manages to get his hand on his sword. 

“Stay down!” he orders Jaskier, and rolls onto his back, sword lifting, casting _Aard_ , sending foglets flying and fog swirling away into the trees. He springs up. Jaskier stays frozen on his back. Geralt cuts the foglets down to the sound of Jaskier’s heart thumping wildly in his chest. 

Luckily, it’s only a small pack, stupid enough to try their luck at this particular camp. As Geralt frees the last one from its head, the fog starts fading. Geralt kneels to wipe his sword on the lingering wetness on the grass. 

Jaskier’s still in the bedroll where Geralt left him, although he’s managed to get up onto an elbow so he can look around, wild-haired and bewildered. 

“Am I dreaming?” he croaks. 

“If you were, and a handful of foglets was the best you could come up with, I’d worry about your imagination,” Geralt responds, coming back. He puts a log on the fire, wincing at the telltale sting of a scratch on his back. “Will you look at this?” he asks, already pulling his shirt up. 

Jaskier sits up, rubbing at his chest. “I’m not sure I can stand,” he admits. “I thought you wanted to cuddle and got monsters instead. I think you took a few years off my life there.”

Geralt drops into a crouch beside Jaskier. “Well, you’ll live longer than if I let that foglet claw your face off.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier mutters, and puts two fingers onto Geralt’s back, tracing the scratch. The worst of it is the left base of his back, but Jaskier says there’s hardly any blood. 

“You’ll live,” he pronounces, rubbing a firm palm down Geralt’s spine before patting his arse. Geralt stands again. Aside from their crackling fire and Jaskier’s heartbeat, which hasn’t calmed yet, the camp is just as peaceful as it was before the foglets rolled in. 

Geralt is so busy picking through the sounds of the night for ones of danger that he doesn't notice Jaskier's moved until Jaskier kneels up enough to grip his hip. 

"What do I owe you?" he asks, breath warming Geralt's stomach through his shirt. 

Geralt looks down, senses widening out and then focusing back in on Jaskier this time. "Hmm?"

Jaskier looks up at him, playing at struck with his eyes wide and his mouth open. Through the lingering cold smell of the fog, Geralt catches the fresh smell of arousal from Jaskier. 

"For saving my life," he says. He tucks his fingers behind the waist of Geralt's breeches over the buttons. "Since I'm already on my knees there must be something I can do for you like this, witcher."

He uses the grip on Geralt's breeches to make the band slouch. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to what he's just exposed. 

This is a favoured game of Jaskier's, silly if you think about it for too long. Most people can barely stand to pay Geralt the coin he's owed, let alone something like this. But Jaskier never has had a problem being grateful to Geralt, fitting the role he made for himself like a glove. And there’s something to be said for the comfort of skin after a fight. 

Geralt grunts, cock filling against the cheek Jaskier rubs over the front of his breeches. Jaskier pops all the buttons, and Geralt helps him ease his breeches down his thighs. Jaskier pulls them down to his knees, kissing Geralt's exposed thigh, taking a breath of him.

"You've a lovely cock," he murmurs as he takes it in hand, as if he hasn't seen it a hundred times, had it in his mouth a hundred times more. 

"Uh-huh." Geralt watches Jaskier nose at the base of his cock before running his mouth up the length of it. Jaskier looks up at him while he does it, making a sound when he reaches the tip like this is all he's ever wanted. Thank the gods he's bracing Geralt's knees with his hands, because it's enough to make Geralt's legs feel like jelly.

*

Jaskier spends the rest of the ride to Tretogor trying to write a song about the attack, struggling to find the right word to rhyme with foglet. 

"Froglet?" he ponders. "Smoglet? Doglet, like a puppy? Hoglet...Goblet, maybe, although it’s a stretch."

Geralt only considers abandoning him in the woods twice.

*

At the gates to Tretogor, the guard holds up a hand to halt them.

"You," he says, pointing to Geralt, "no. You," waving Jaskier forward, "yes."

"Why?" Jaskier asks, already willing to fight whatever injustice is about to befall Geralt. "He provides a valuable service at a very reasonable price."

"Thanks," Geralt says, dry. 

The guard isn't swayed by that. "We have enough problems without a dirty witcher mucking around in the city."

" _We know_ ," Jaskier says very, very slowly, as if he thinks the guard might be hard of hearing. "Your problem is exactly why Geralt is here. He's kind of an expert in disappearing people."

It wasn't the right thing to say, or it was the right thing poorly said. The guard sneers at them. 

"I said no. Are you in or out, bard?"

Jaskier raises the finger he prefers to use when he's arguing, but Geralt grabs the back of his doublet and hauls him close enough to whisper to.

"Go in," he says into Jaskier's ear. "Talk to some people. Meet me at the western city walls when you know something."

Jaskier nods, his hair brushing Geralt's nose. Geralt lets him go with a shove toward the gates. 

The guard glowers at them while Jaskier tugs on his doublet hem and dusts off his cuffs, but steps aside to let him pass.

*

Jaskier stays inside the city walls for two days. Geralt uses the time to set up a camp, practice his signs and forms, and care for Roach. His _Quen_ hasn't been so crisp or Roach’s coat so shiny in years. 

On the third night, Jaskier appears. Geralt hears him a long way off, trampling grass, murmuring to himself. He's in high spirits with the smell of spirits on his breath. 

"They're great," he says when Geralt asks how the townspeople are, and then pulls himself back. "Well, not great in general. Great to me. Everyone likes music when they're afraid for their lives."

"Jaskier."

Jaskier holds up a hand. "Right. Sorry." He takes a deep breath and begins to tell Geralt about what he's heard. At least fifty people disappeared between mid-winter and now. Most without a trace, although there has been some blood. A few people were seen snatched.

"Snatched?" Geralt repeats, leaning forward although he couldn't be listening anymore intently. 

Jaskier nods. He's pacing back and forth in front of the fire. 

"Yes," he says, "as if by a hunter's snare." He holds one of his palms out flat, and then clamps it into a fist, jerking it back by the elbow. 

Geralt's running through all the creatures he knows. "To where?" he asks. "Did anyone see where?"

Jaskier stops pacing. His one hand is still in a fist. 

"The sewers?" he says it in a way that means he isn't sure if it was the truth or a drunkard’s jest. 

"Fuck," Geralt says. "It's a zeugl."

"Which is?"

"An aquatic creature with a fish's head. It lives in dirty water and will grow enormous given enough time and flesh to eat." Knowing the number of missing and the size of the sewers needed to support a city like Tretogor, Geralt is already dreading the fight. "It has tentacles and a lot of teeth."

"Fuck," Jaskier agrees. He runs his hand back over his hair and then down his mouth. “Can you kill it?”

“I’ve done it before,” Geralt says. “But it won’t be easy. Once they grow large enough zeugls are very fast and very strong, but can’t move from their lairs. I’ll have to go down into the sewers and meet it there.”

“Lucky you,” Jaskier mutters. He looks to the city with its high walls and archers that can’t protect its people from the thing that preys on them from below. “Should I leave you to your preparations?”

Geralt takes stock. Over the past few days he’s made potions, sharpened his two swords and his daggers, made acid and blinding bombs, reinforced the joints on his armour, and cleaned all his clothes. Boredom has done great things for his battle readiness.

“I’ll survive,” Geralt says. “Stay for a while, have a drink with me. It’ll be the last time you see me clean for a while.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says, smiling fondly, already sitting down next to Geralt.

*

The city’s sewage drain is a giant pipe at the southwest edge of the city, stinking of shit and an alarming amount of blood. It’s barred, but there’s more than enough space for someone of Geralt’s size to slip through. No one else would bother trying to get in, and the zeugl’s taken care of anyone trying to get out. 

There’s no avoiding it. Geralt’s knee-deep in greywater as soon as he gets between the bars, and it’ll only get worse from here on. He gives one last look at the sun before he lights a torch with _Igni_ and descends into the darkness.

Aside from the dripping, trickling, and splashing sounds of water, it’s quiet. There’s no rustling rat feet or sharp squeaks. All the normal inhabitants of the sewer must have been baby food for the zeugl before it grew large enough and found its taste for human flesh. 

The Tretogoran sewers are no winding mystery, but it isn’t long before Geralt loses his sense of where he’s going except for _deeper_. His sense of smell is dulled, numbed by the overwhelming smell of shit, but he feels every step in the cold, thick water. He has to stay mindful of his boots on the bottom so he doesn't slip. 

After a while, the walls start to gleam under the light of the torch. Geralt steps closer, holding the torch close. The walls here are coated with a clear slime, lines running through. Some are the width of two of Geralt's fingers together, some his arm, a few thicker than his waist. He dips two fingers into the slime and smells it. Fishy. 

He lets the trail of slime lead him. 

*

He comes to a fork in the sewers. He must be close to the heart of Tretogor now. The soft tide of water laps at his legs, like the city is inhaling and exhaling around him. He holds the torch up again to see the two paths. Both tunnels are slime-coated, lined with the trails tentacles have left. He steps closer, breathing deeply of the dank, soupy air, trying to catch a stronger scent, and sees, on the lip of the right tunnel-mouth, a mark. 

It's four lines, each too small to be the end of one of the zeugl's tentacles, dragged through the slime. After a few feet, the marks go messy and then disappear. Slowly, Geralt lifts his right hand, holding it over where the marks begin, curled around the tunnel's entrance. It's four fingers, and when he looks closer, there's the curve of a thumb. 

He steps away from the desperate handprint, reaching into his belt for his flask of Cat. He takes a dose, and dashes the torch out on the wall. 

*

Once he gets deeper, the slime gets thicker, the tunnels well-used. An echo rises up through the tunnels from deeper in the sewers, the sounds of water being pushed and some thick slipping reaching Geralt’s ears. Geralt moves slowly and deliberately, to reduce noise. He can't smell the creature yet, but he can feel it. He hopes it can't feel him. 

He's just turned a corner when, in some other tunnel nearby comes a rushing: water and flesh moving and moving fast. It's followed by a throaty scream that claws at the walls.

There's no time for silence or stealth, not when the zeugl's got a living victim. Geralt runs after the sounds. 

He comes to an archway just in time to see a huge, mottled pink-grey tentacle surge past. In its grasp is a woman, the part of the tentacle wrapped around her pulsating like an organ. The woman is filthy but alive, struggling futilely to free herself from it’s grip. It's too dark for her to see Geralt, but she looks right where he is as she's pulled past him, her eyes bright and terrified even in the darkness. 

Geralt gives chase, looking the woman in the eyes the whole time. Can she hear his footsteps, sense him at all under her terror? He doesn't know. The tentacle pulls her through another archway and the echo of her screams broadens out. Geralt passes through the archway after her, coming to a place where four waterways meet, stone ledges around an open area filled with water. In the huge pool in the middle is the zeugl.

It's massive, head like a house, surrounded by a mass of tentacles of all sizes. Its skin is glossy, coated with slime, and it's mouth has two rows of teeth, each as long as a hand. That maw is open, head tilted back, a hungry gurgling coming out of it. The tentacle wrapped around the woman is bringing her to the mouth, too thick to do it directly. It’s lifting her up so it can drop her in. She must know her end is near; her struggling has intensified and she's screaming herself hoarse. 

Geralt sprints across the slimy cobbles lining the channel, drawing his silver sword. The sword slashes through, slicing almost through, releasing a spray of viscera. The tentacle goes limp, falling down and releasing the woman from its grasp Her cries go hysterical until the zeugl's scream drowns it out. Until she lands on Geralt and they both tip in the water. 

It's blackwater here, no storm drain to dilute it. It's as slimy as the wall and so cold. Geralt can't smell the zeugl underwater, but that's no reprieve. What he can smell is worse. He clamps his eyes and mouth shut and pushes the woman to the surface and the edge of the channel with the hand not holding his sword. 

"Stay back," he growls, spitting, shoving her as close to the wall as possible. 

He doesn’t know if she can even hear him. She says nothing in response, only vomits on the stone. 

Geralt turns right into the tentacle lashing around him. The months of feeding have made the zeugl strong; the tentacle wraps around him with crushing force before it starts to shake him wildly. The tentacle is thick around him, muscular. Geralt feels the vials of potion he has in his belt crunch, the glass grinding between his hip and the zeugl’s flesh. 

"Fuck," he swears, upside down. The tentacle clenches around his body, the whip end of it finding his throat and curling around. It squeezes him again and he loses his grip on his silver sword. It clatters to the stone and not into the water, thankfully. Not that it does him any damn good on the ground. 

He has other things to worry around though, like the pressure around his windpipe. The gripping suckers on the tentacle are pulling at his skin like the worst kiss while the tentacle itself chokes him. Even with the Cat his vision starts to darken. He fumbles at his side with the hand he still has use of.

Having all that time to himself was a blessing. If it wasn't for those couple of lonely days, Geralt might not have sharpened this dagger to such a point. Zeugl skin is thick, and well protected by the slime. If his dagger wasn't so sharp, he'd never be able to stab it upwards unto the zeugl’s tentacle, the blade sinking vertically into the meat. 

The creature squeezes his throat again, but with less pressure than before. Geralt saws the blade back and forth, rancid, fishy blood pouring over his fist. He doesn't stop until his hand is in the split, until the dagger's point comes out the top. The end of the tentacle slackens, too damaged to maintain its grip. He pulls the knife out and slams it into the tentacle around his waist, again and again until the zeugl screams. 

It draws him towards its mouth, intent on having some kind of meal today. Geralt's left arm is numb, hanging against his broken ribs and he can hear how his breath whistles, but he manages to fumble the bag of bombs he has tucked in his armour with just his right arm. The bag is damp but not soaking, good enough. 

Below him, the zeugl's mouth gapes. Geralt swings above it, staring down at the creature's fist-sized white eye as he puts all his power into _Igni_.

The bag gets clammy in his hand, smoking, stinking. He keeps going, drawing on his pain and the woman's panicked cries to get to his magic, until the entire bag of bombs lights up. 

For a moment, the cavern is lit. The woman on the stone screams at the sight before her: the nightmare fish creature, the witcher suspended above its wide-open mouth. Blinded by the fire, Geralt can't see anything. He drops the sparking bag of bombs down the zeugl's gullet. Acting on instinct, it swallows. 

The sound of the blast echoes in the cavern, dulled by the zeugl's body. It wails and all of its tentacles go wild, throwing Geralt. He hits the wall first, and then drops to the stone ledge. It feels like an explosion has gone off inside of him too, his ribs screaming, his skull shattered. 

The creature screams, the smell of blood and acid and cooked fish flesh filling the air. Its tentacles thump against the walls and roof of the sewer as the acid eats at it from the inside out. Geralt hears its bulging body thrash in the water as it tries to save itself. It can't though. The trouble is inside of it, inescapable. 

The tentacles go limp, the gurgling going watery with blood as the zeugl dies. Geralt watches the white eye, doubled in his vision, dim. 

He pulls himself on his elbow toward the silver smell of his sword, glad to have it in his grip again, even if the fight is over. He can at least die with it in his hand. 

Footsteps find him, scuffling things, careful of an unseen edge. 

"Witcher," the woman says with what little voice she has left. She gropes for his body gently in the dark. "We must go."

Geralt lifts his head off the slick stone. "Leave me here," he says, just as faint as her.

"You saved me. We're alive. We can go together. Now come." She tugs on his armour until he gives in enough to get up.

Together, they manage to stand on the stone. Geralt looks over at the heap of the zeugl. Its tentacles are all over, extended into the tunnels, the head tipped down into the water. It will take months to rot enough to drain out of the city. 

"I can't see it," the woman says, pulling his arm over her shoulder like a yoke. "Is it truly dead, witcher?"

"Yes.”

"Good riddance," the woman murmurs, spitting on the stone as they begin to walk.

*

The walk out of the sewers may be worse than the fight itself. It’s been a long time since Geralt’s had to handle his injuries without potions; he’s taken them for granted, because without them he’s in agony. Each step grinds his bones together, and breathing is a sharp torture made worse by the woman’s shoulder pressing into his ribs. His head pounds worse than a hammer on stone. All he wants to do is to stop and close his eyes, but he’s the only one who can see, no matter how spotty his vision is. 

To keep him alert, the woman talks. She tells him her name is Maren and she sells flowers on the street. As sweet as this place is foul, she says. He chuckles to show he’s listening, and then groans, and then can barely breathe through the pain.

At a point, the tunnel starts to lighten, the details in Geralt’s vision washing out, losing focus.

“Dying?” he mumbles. 

Maren shakes her head. “I think it’s the entrance. Come on, witcher, keep moving and you’ll smell fresh air again.”

At the sewer’s entrance, Maren has to let go of him to slip through the bars so she can help him. He’d taken her for granted too. Without her shoulder jabbing in his rib and her hand on his numb wrist he can barely stand, let alone turn himself to slip through the bars. He sweats and shakes with pain as he moves through, vision going white in the sunlight. 

She pulls him out of the water and onto the grass. Geralt can’t see anything, his whiteout vision blackening at the edges, but he can hear Jaskier yell his name as he stumbles. Jaskier catches him, both of them going to their knees. Geralt’s vision goes totally black as he takes a deep breath of fresh air mixed with Jaskier’s familiar, clean smell.

*

There is more pain. The irregular grind and bump of people carrying him, the burn of potions down his bruised throat, the broken-glass grind of his ribs being bound. Even the touch of rags and water he’s washed with make him ache. Hearing hurts, people’s voices too sharp to handle. 

He fades in and out for a long while, no good sense of time left in him. In the daylight, he’s alone in the bed, and whenever night comes, a body curls beside him.

When Geralt finally wakes, it’s to the creaking of the ceiling as someone steps heavily across it. He feels each step inside his skull, but the pain is duller than it was before. He closes his eyes again, to better feel his body. His ribs and hips and arm ache deeply but they’re better than they were before. The rest of his body is sore too, from lying still. His left hand is hot and damp. 

He’s careful turning his head on the pillow, blinking to clear the grit from his eyes. He can’t see his own hand. Instead he sees the crown of a head, messy brown hair swirling. It’s Jaskier, bent over the mattress, his forehead to Geralt’s wrist, Geralt’s hand held between his two. Geralt’s hand is warm from his skin, his breath.

Geralt blinks again, focusing. He manages to make his fingers twitch against Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier turns his face against the touch, and then stills. Geralt does it again, and Jaskier sits up like a sprung trap. 

“Geralt?”

He looks wild and ill, red-eyed, creases on his cheeks and forehead. His shirt is undone past propriety and more creased than his face. He has no chair or stool. He’s kneeling beside Geralt’s bed on the floor. 

Geralt runs his thick tongue over his cracked lips. They’re sour with the remnants of potion. 

“Don’t speak,” Jaskier says hoarsely. “Your throat looks like it’s had ten nooses wrapped around it.”

He turns his head to yell for the healer, voice harsh but his hands so gentle around Geralt’s. 

*

Geralt suffers through the healer's prodding, questions, and the poor human imitation Swallow potion he offers. At the healer’s impatient look, Jaskier shuffles over to give the healer some room but otherwise stays kneeling at Geralt's beside. He plays with a caught seam on the blanket idly, watching closely as the healer adjusts the wrapping on Geralt's ribs.

"Well," the healer says, steadying Geralt so he can sit up comfortably, "you seem to be on your way to healing. You look a sight, but the bruises will fade. Try to move around today. If there's pain, let someone know." He gestures vaguely behind himself to the rest of the sickhouse.

"Yeah," Geralt says. He's used to pain. He won't be making any complaints that will keep him in here longer. Then, remembering, he asks, "What about Maren?"

The healer's brow creases, and then smooths. "Oh, the flower girl? She had some bruises but nothing serious. We sent her on her way with a bar of soap days ago." 

Geralt takes a relieved, painful breath. Without Maren, he'd still be in the sewers, just another thing taking its time rotting. 

The healer leaves Geralt's room in a sweep of robes. Geralt waits for his footsteps to recede down the hall, gathering himself, before he pushes the blankets down and gets his feet on the floor. The soles, sensitive from disuse, tingle at the coldness of the stone. 

"What are you doing?" Jaskier squawks. He grasps at the blankets Geralt left behind. "You should be resting!"

"The healer just said I should move around." Geralt tests some weight on his feet. His legs feel weak, but he thinks he can bear standing. 

Jaskier shuffles closer, so he can get a hand on Geralt's knee instead of the blanket. "I'm not sure he meant like this, Geralt."

Geralt digs one fist into the mattress and puts the other on Jaskier's shoulder. "I just want some water. Help me up."

Giving the water pitcher and mug on the table across the room a worried look, Jaskier gets a foot under himself and a helping hand on Geralt's hip. 

Geralt pushes off the bed and Jaskier pushes off the floor. It takes effort, but Geralt makes it to standing. 

Jaskier does not.

*

The healer's exasperated once he's called back, moreso when he sees he's being asked to attend to Jaskier and not Geralt. 

"Your knees," he says, disbelieving, hands hovering. 

Geralt, leaning on the wall, half-full mug of water in his hand, says, "He couldn't stand up."

Jaskier, in Geralt's place in the bed, rolls up his trouser legs. The skin on his knees is red, bumped with indentations from the grit on the floor. 

"I've spent a lot of time on them," he says as the healer rubs his fingers around the edge of the inflammation. 

Geralt coughs for show, which turns into a real cough. He lifts the mug to his mouth to wet his strained throat.

Jaskier glares at Geralt. "I prayed over you. For days." He bites the inside of his lip, worrying it, before turning his attention back to the healer.

Manipulating Jaskier's kneecap, waiting for signs of pain, the healer asks, "How does it feel?"

Jaskier lifts a shoulder and then drops it. "Well enough. Tingles a little." He speaks quickly, clearly embarrassed by Geralt calling the healer for him. 

The healer examines the other kneecap perfunctorily. "Sometimes there is fatigue." He looks up at Geralt. "You must forget that not everyone has a witcher's biology. And your friend really did pray at your bedside while you slept."

Jaskier keeps his eyes on his knees, where the red is slowly fading. He's biting his own mouth again. His face is pink. 

The healer slaps the mattress. "Try to stay standing," he tells Jaskier. "The witcher doesn't need your prayers anymore."

Jaskier nods at his knees. The healer leaves again, closing the door with a finality that implies he shouldn't be bothered again for anything less than an impending death. 

Geralt makes his slow way back to the water pitcher, filling his mug again. He takes a few swallows and then walks carefully back to the bed, where Jaskier is still sitting, legs bare to the knee. It's a single bed, not build for men of their size, but Geralt has no interest in kneeling on the floor like a supplicant. He takes a seat next to Jaskier's feet. 

He passes the mug to Jaskier and leans over Jaskier's legs, mindful of stretching his ribs too much. The marks and redness are already dissipating, and Geralt can't see any sign of swelling in the joints. He puts his hand over Jaskier's knee to see if there's any heat from infection. The knee under his palm is cool but twitches. 

He rubs his thumb there, feeling only skin and hair, no trouble. "Seems fine," he says.

Jaskier sighs from some place hidden deep, deep inside himself. He bites his lip again, chewing on it for a moment before he says softly, "I think we should go to Rinde."

*

Tretogor and Rinde aren't far apart, only a few days travel between them. The road is easy and once Geralt can get his hands on a proper dose of Swallow, he has no problem climbing on horseback. 

It should be a pleasant time. The weather meets them fairly, the spring sun gaining power, drying the ground and warming the air. And the road is easy, too well-travelled for monsters and bandits. It should be a fine few days, but it's not. 

Jaskier holds himself apart the entire time. He doesn't spare much attention to or even look at Geralt much, hardly even looks at him. He doesn't take any of Geralt's offers to let him ride Roach, and when Geralt asks how he is, what he’s thinking, he only shakes his head.

The nights are still cool, and Jaskier still shares his warmth with Geralt, but he wears whatever is worrying him like a blanket instead of sharing Geralt’s. Chilled at having Jaskier so close physically but so far away otherwise, Geralt has trouble sleeping.

*

They receive a warmer welcome in Rinde than Tretogor. It’s unexpected and a little strange, given the city’s attitude toward sorcery. But Rinde hasn’t had to endure a winter of mysterious disappearances, and spring always brings a kind of forgiveness with it. 

Hostility towards magic makes it both easier and harder to find Jaskier’s sorceress. Those capable of magic tend to practice it in secret, but secrets are hard to keep. The air is full of whispers and it doesn’t take long to start hearing ones about the witch from the west selling spells out of a washer woman’s attic. 

The house’s creaking door is answered by the washer woman. Her dark hair covered by a kerchief but otherwise she looks so familiar they must be at the right place. She takes in Geralt’s hair and eyes without reaction, but turns the full force of her scowl on Jaskier.

“How did you find us?” she demands. She’s tall like her sister, capable of filling the door’s frame physically. Her displeasure at seeing them fills in any of the gaps left over. 

Jaskier rubs at the back of his neck. “You must be, ah, Zosia. I’ve heard such good things about you.”

Zosia smiles meanly. “And I such horrid things about you.” She holds up her fingers to count. “Scoundrel, cad, heartbreaker, selfish, poor lute player.”

Jaskier winces, but takes the punishment without comment. 

“Listen,” he says, “We – I – came to speak to Anniella.”

Zosia folds her arms in front of her apron. “She’s not here right now.”

“Then let us wait for her. Give her the pleasure of throwing me out herself.”

Zosia takes her time considering it, leaning one shoulder, rubbing her pruned fingers on her apron. She waits until Jaskier’s nearly squirming to straighten up and say, “Fine. But I do this for her, not for you.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says, relieved. 

*

Zosia leads them through her tall, thin house that smells of soap and wet linen, up two flights of stairs to the attic, to a door marked with a family sigil. Geralt can sense the magic coming from the crack under the door, but the office Zosia leads them into is unremarkable. There’s a side table and cabinet, each full of equipment and ingredients. Against the back wall is a shelf of books, and a large desk with a ledger and quill.

“Wait here,” Zosia instructs them, gesturing to the two wooden chairs on the near side of the desk. “Touch nothing.” She shuts the door behind her when she leaves, sealing them into the room. In here it smells of incense and old spells instead of soap. 

“Hot in here,” Jaskier murmurs, adjusting his doublet as he sits. He pulls out the chair next to his but Geralt ignores it in favour of walking the perimeter of the room. Geralt touches nothing, but holds his hand above items, trying to sense their purpose. Nothing feels especially malicious, but Geralt is still glad he wore his armour and has his silver sword on his back. He’ll never beat a witch with magic, but there’s more than one way to win a fight, if it comes to that.

The chair rests empty next to Jaskier, still waiting for him. Instead Geralt finds a place to lean in the back corner of the room. From here he can see the door and the desk, Jaskier between the two, hunched over, tapping his fingers on his restless knees.

From below, under the sound of a rug being beaten with a stick, comes the creak of the front door opening. The stick drops immediately, replaced by a murmuring voice that’s met with an angry one. Footsteps on the stairs. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns. 

Jaskier sits up, smoothing his hands over his trousers, his doublet, his hair. 

The door flings open, Anniella striding in, dressed like a summer civilian in Rinde instead of a sorceress. She points a finger at Jaskier, who’s twisted in his chair to see her.

“What are you doing here?” she demands as she rounds the desk. She doesn’t sit in the chair across from Jaskier, just grips the back of it tightly. “And you,” she says darkly to Geralt. 

“I came to talk to you,” Jaskier says. He lifts his hands up, palms open, beseeching. “To apologize.”

Anniella doesn’t speak, only glares at Jaskier. Geralt can feel the magic simmering around her, but it’s steady. He holds steady too. 

“This winter,” Jaskier says, speaking slowly, taking time to choose his words, “you treated me with such kindness and care, and I did not pay it back to you in the way you deserve. We misunderstood each other, and you suffered for it. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s looking up at Anniella with earnest apology all over his face, clasping his hands between his knees. Anniella is unmoved. She wrings at the chair back until her knuckles pale. 

“You say you’re sorry,” she spits at him. “And yet, you drag that witcher of yours here, to what? Threaten me into undoing what I did, so you can think of me easily? I don’t care,” she says, hurt and furious, her eyes shining. “Get up and get out.”

She throws herself away from the chair and around the desk. Geralt straightens, ready to reach for his sword, but Anniella bypasses Jaskier entirely, going for the door. 

Jaskier springs out of his chair, whirling, hand out toward Anniella. “Wait, wait!”

Anniella stops. She doesn’t turn, wiping her sleeve over her eyes. 

“I’m a cad and a coward,” Jaskier says pleadingly to her back. “I know how it is to be hurt like this, and I did it to you anyway. You don’t have to forgive me but please know that I’m truly sorry, Anniella. Please, please undo it.” He’s begging her at the end, voice shaking on the last _please_.

Anniella’s shoulders slump, but she turns to face Jaskier. He smiles at her hopefully. She starts to smile at him, but then frowns. 

“You should be on your knees,” she says, pointing to the floor to illustrate where Jaskier is meant to be.

Startled, Jaskier tugs on the front of his doublet. Says, “I’m not sure that’s appropriate now,” with an uneasy smile on his face. 

“No, it’s how it works. The spell worked.” Anniella seems shocked to the point of speechlessness. She rubs her thumb over her palm. “It’s – you shouldn’t be able to stand at the sight of your true feelings for me. If you love me.”

The smile drops off Jaskier’s face, taking most of the colour with it. 

“I-” he stammers. “I-I don’t-” As if he can’t stop himself, he turns his head to look at Geralt. He’s wide-eyed, his mouth trembling. They make eye contact and before Geralt can move or speak, Jaskier goes to his knees there on the floor. He stays there, unable to stand, looking up at Geralt, humiliated, devastated, in love.

*

“Please,” Jaskier says on the street, hand over his eyes. The woven curse-breaking bracelet from Anniella slides down his wrist. “I want to be alone for a while.” 

He hasn’t looked at Geralt since Anniella helped him off the floor and to the chair so he could wait for her to weave the bracelet. He had stared at her nervous hands on the strings, his face a painful-looking red. Had listened with his head down to her apology for cursing him and her instructions not to cut it off or damage it while it worked to remove the curse. It would fall off on its own once it had absorbed the curse from him. He had only lifted his face only to thank her for undoing it, and then had walked in front of Geralt down the stairs, through the washing room, past Zosia like a horse with blinders on. 

Now he’s half-turned from Geralt, his cheeks blotchy under the cover of his hand.

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts.

Jaskier waves his hand to stop Geralt. He has his eyes shut tight so he won’t see Geralt. “Geralt, I’m sorry, I can’t. Please. Once this,” he shakes his wrist, “is done, things can go back to normal. In the meantime, I’m going to try and drown myself in strong drink. Don’t get into trouble.”

He spins on his heel, eyes still shaded, and strides away. Geralt watches him until he joins a crowd and disappears from sight.

*

With no contract in Rinde, and no company, Geralt wanders the streets. No one moves to hail him though, either happily or with hostility, but Geralt hears how the whispers change behind him and feels the weight of their suspicious looks on his back.

For all its hostility, Rinde is a beautiful city, even moreso in spring. There are good wares for sale, and the smell of fresh baking and flowers in the air. If Jaskier were walking down the street at his side, it would be pleasant. But he's somewhere else, licking his wounds, so Geralt moves down the sidewalk feeling like a pariah, and buys enough bread for one. 

He spends his nights in a barn, sleeping in cold hay with his cold sword at his back. It's worse than the long, cold winter in Kaer Morhen. On the third night he doesn't sleep at all, just lays on his back, imagining Jaskier's face. It had been so helpless and pained as he went to his knees in that room, his feelings plain for them all to see. And Geralt had done nothing, just stood there. It had been Anniella, the very person to curse Jaskier in the first place, to eventually pull him up by his elbows, and swear she would undo the curse. That had been the last time Jaskier looked at him.

Stuck between the images of Jaskier trapped on his knees in the attic and Jaskier walking away from him on the street, Geralt covers his eyes to will the memories away. He presses down until all he can see is stars and holds himself like that, waiting for the stars in the sky outside to fade to light.

In the morning, he goes looking for Jaskier. 

*

“I’ve got a bard,” an innkeeper says finally, after Geralt’s been asking around for most of the day. “Shut himself in a room upstairs. I’d assume he was dead, but he keeps ordering bottles of wine. He’s owed some now, in fact.” She nods to a bottle of wine on the counter, the same swill they serve everywhere. “Take it to him yourself. Last room on the right. Watch out though. He’s a yeller.”

“I know,” Geralt says.

He takes his time going up the stairs, walking down the hall. He doesn’t let himself pause at the door though, where the smell of wine and anguish is coming from the cracks. He opens the door decisively, steps right in and closes the door behind himself.

Jaskier’s slumped at the table, legs kicked straight out. He has one hand on the table holding an empty glass, and the other over his eyes. He still has the bracelet on, although it looks well-worn by now, the dark stain of the curse seeping into the weave. 

“Just put it wherever,” he says carelessly. He sounds more exhausted than drunk. The covers on the bed are rumpled but not pulled back. There’s dirt marks at the bottom of the bed, most likely from Jaskier laying down without taking his boots off. 

Geralt sets the bottle on the shelf by the door. He has little intention of letting Jaskier have it. “Jaskier.”

Surprised, Jaskier drops his hand and looks at Geralt. A slow, unhappy grimace spreads his mouth. He looks down at his sprawled legs.

“Nothing to see here,” he quips. “Can’t fall down if I’m already sitting down.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “I can still feel it though. You know, when you trip over something?” He picks up his glass, considers the bottom of it and puts it back down. 

Geralt removes his swords, setting them against the same shelf the wine is on. He doesn’t want Jaskier to get to these either, nor does he need them right now. 

“If I ask you questions,” he says, “will you answer them honestly? I want to you to be honest with me now.”

Jaskier looks like he’d rather have a sword in the gut instead, but he nods, making a _go on_ gesture with his hand.

Geralt has a thousand questions swimming through his mind, products of cold sleepless nights. Some are more unnerving than others, so he settles on, “Did you know what it was?” first. 

Something passes over Jaskier’s face; he wasn’t expecting that question either. 

“At first, I didn’t really notice,” he says. Instead of any drunk looseness, his voice is somber, deeply contemplative. “I felt _something_ when she slapped me, but didn’t know what is was. But the pattern revealed itself eventually. I’m clumsy but I’m not _that_ clumsy.” 

He rubs one of his knees, as if it’s fallen asleep. “And then I tried to ignore it. I mean,” he smiles sadly at Geralt, still rubbing, “it was hardly any different than before, right? Just a couple of weak knees sometimes, when we looked at each other, or I really felt...”

He holds up his wrist, the bracelet. “Curses though, turns out they’re hard to bear. Harder to hide your feelings when you can’t stay on your feet.”

That catches Geralt’s attention. “How long?” he asks. “Have you...” It feels strange to say. 

Jaskier closes his eyes, tipping his head back to the wall. “It took a year.”

“You’ve been in love with me for a year?”

Snorting, Jaskier picks his head up and knocks it back again, skull thudding against the tapestry hung up there. “No,” he says, dryly, “it took me a year to fall in love with you. And it probably only took that long because you were a giant prick for most of it.”

Geralt shakes his head, stunned. All that time. 

“If you were – then why didn’t you say anything? You never hesitate to tell me your feelings about anything else.”

“It’s not that easy, Geralt. Feelings aren’t obvious like magic spells. It’s not always...there. I’m not always dwelling on it. Besides, you’re _you_ , with all of your,” Jaskier gestures to the whole of Geralt, “complications. And we’re friends. I wanted to still be friends.” He chews his lip, glancing at Geralt. “I want to be friends.”

“Friends who share beds?” Geralt asks. His stomach feels like an empty well, the bucket scraping the side as it comes to the surface. 

Jaskier rubs his eyes roughly, shaking his head. “You offered and I, I couldn’t believe it. It was stupid but I wanted it so badly I couldn’t say no. And I probably thought maybe...If we...” He smiles his wry, sad, brave smile at Geralt again. “To say nothing of how good it is, between us. You can’t tell me it’s not.”

Geralt paces further into the room, asking before he thinks: “If it’s so good then why did you spend the winter with Anniella?”

“I don’t know!” Jaskier yells, and then presses his fist to his mouth. He holds it there a moment, and when he pulls it away again he speaks in a softer tone. “It just happened. I’ve gotten used to feeling like this, Geralt, but it’s different with you gone to Kaer Morhen. There’s too much time in the winter to think.” He swallows. “To miss you. I missed you, alright? I regretted letting you leave me in Ban Ard and I was lonely, and Anniella was there and it was a terrible mistake. I’m well-aware that I’m a fool.”

“And now,” he gestures to himself, his rumpled clothing, his cursed knees, “Anniella’s gone, you’re going, and I don’t even have my pride. I have nothing.”

Geralt takes a deep breath. “Jaskier-”

“I said I was sorry, Geralt, and I am. I am. Truly. You don’t have to forgive me either. You can go. I’ll be okay alone.”

He hunches forward to balance his elbows on his knees, working at his lip. The heartbreak coming from him is palpable. Geralt feels it like an ache in his own body. All these years, and he’s never seen Jaskier this defeated. He’s seen Jaskier on the verge of laughter, frightened for his own life or Geralt’s, breathless and endearing after pleasure, all kind of ways, in love each time. But this, this is nothing Geralt wants to see. 

He turns away, towards his swords and the wine and the door. Behind him, Jaskier takes a deep, wet breath.

If he leaves, there’s no telling when or even if he’ll see Jaskier again. Without Jaskier, it’ll be a long summer, with no laughter or pleasure no matter how much coin Geralt makes. And after that, another cold, empty winter, another wet spring. On and on, for as long as Geralt can stand it. The thought is more painful than any injury Geralt has experienced in years. 

His boots are loud as he crosses the floor. He’s aware of every step, each one resonating up his legs from the floor. Jaskier keeps his head down, shoulders going tight as Geralt approaches him, likely expecting a slap – or worse.

He doesn’t look up, not even when Geralt takes his face into his hands with the care and kindness he wishes he’d taken Jaskier’s heart all those years ago.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Geralt tells him. “Jaskier, you’re not alone in this.” 

Jaskier’s face lifts in shock at his words, his cheeks going red and hot under Geralt’s palms. He watches, hope brightening his eyes as Geralt goes to his knees on the floor between his feet, so that they can finally truly see one another.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr: [crushcandles](https://crushcandles.tumblr.com/), where I’m always weak in the knees for Jaskier getting cursed.


End file.
